


Skin

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Body Horror, Creepy magic, Dark, Dark!Luthien, F/F, Femslash, Halloween 2015 on Tumblr, Horror, and basically all that would be expected from that situation, that one bit in the Silmarillion where a character literally takes another's skin to wear as a cloak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5168552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tol-in-Gaurhoth has fallen, but Lúthien comes looking for Thuringwethil among the wreckage. </p>
<p>There is, after all, one more thing she needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin

Thuringwethil knew that she would come, before she even saw her.

The Isle was rubble and broken stones, crashing into the bright waters of Sirion below, crawling, pallid slaves shielding their eyes as the light hit them, the werewolves scrambling and clamouring to flee. 

Thuringwethil knew she too should flee, fly high into the roiling smoky sky on black wings, far above those waters so shimmering silver, cleansing fire in liquid form. The very thought of them made her head swim, as though it was too bright to look at.

But, if she was honest, that was not the only reason she stayed.

The rubble was quiet and dark, and she could even feed there, strengthening herself off the last trickle of life-blood dribbling from the throat of a thrall half-crushed by a great stone column, immobilised, legs broken. Quiet little one, she thought, letting her clawed fingers brush the pathetic creature’s mewling mouth with a twist of contempt, you will be dead soon. Don’t make so much noise.

Her ears, after all, were very sensitive, large and membranous. And even as she fed, sucking up the hot iron-tanged blood of her dying victim, her head jerked upwards, ears swivelling, alerted by the sound of motion behind her. 

She was curled within a little cavity between two great stones sealed below ground by the rubble, the dark pressing in on her, but she could see a silhouette within the bright opening to the outside. She squeezed her eyes shut; the figure’s outline was too bright to look at. With her ears alone, she could see more, and she was not surprised by the sight. 

And yet the beauty of the woman, the strange creature coming towards her from the opening, made her catch her breath. The princess, thought Thuringwethil with hatred, the one who broke this Isle all to pieces. Behind her a great hound waited at the doors, holding back. 

The princess, even in Thuringwethil’s sound-vision, seemed to be wreathed in tendrils of violet light, floating lazily about her. With her came a strong, heady perfumed scent, as though of flowers. It was enough to choke Thuringwethil, and she focussed quickly on the taste of blood, familiar and sharp, life-giving. 

“What are you doing here?” hissed Thuringwethil. “Is this Isle not broken enough for you? Must you hunt down every last one of your enemies and slay them?”

“I would not slay you.” Her voice was sickly-sweetness and uncomfortable buzzing to Thuringwethil’s ears, full of the same jarring power that twined about her. “Though perhaps it would be a mercy, pitiful enthralled thing that you are.”

Thuringwethil ignored this last, though she bared her long, spindle-sharp teeth. “Then what do you want of me?”

Was it her imagination, of did a flicker of hesitation, of indecision, pass across those fair features? “One thing only” said Lúthien, her voice quiet. Thuringwethil frowned then, opening her eyes wider even though the light hurt them, for she saw - or thought she saw - a glimmer upon Lúthien’s cheek. A glimmer of tears? She opened her mouth once more, but before she could speak, her words were stopped in her throat. Lúthien had begun to sing, a quiet, lilting lullaby that nevertheless contained an undercurrent of pure, raw power, the song wrapped tightly around it. The scent of flowers was growing stronger, and suddenly Lúthien was right in front of her without seeming to have crossed the intervening space.

Thuringwethil narrowed her eyes with a hiss, momentarily blinded by the bright gaze of the princess. Suddenly she felt trapped, confined in the space that was too small even to spread out her wings, and a sudden sense of panic rushed through her. She quashed it though; this princess would die just the same as the others, and her blood would make Thuringwethil stronger, though the taste may not be to her liking. 

She bared her claws, and teeth, trying to pick out the spot on Lúthien’s neck where her life pulsed shallow beneath the skin; she was an expert at this. But before she could strike, she felt herself frozen, immobile; the song seemed to have fixed her limbs in place, confining her. Even as she struggled against the bonds - silver-violet vines made of light seemed to be creeping about her limbs, pinioning her wings - she went limp, gasping in sudden surprise, in hateful pleasure. 

For Lúthien’s touch was not ungentle; in fact, she had laid her lips just at the equivalent place on Thuringwethil’s throat that she had been thinking just a moment ago was the point at which Lúthien’s own life hung in balance. She must know, thought Thuringwethil. She must understand the balance, the spill of hot blood, the taking of it. She knows how to survive. 

And yet, Lúthien’s touch was not a bite, no teeth tearing through skin as Thuringwethil had half expected - had almost accepted, as to be slain by such a one as the princess would perhaps be preferable to being slain by the bright swords of the flame-eyed ones, out in the wilds - but a gentle kiss, growing heated after a moment. Thuringwethil felt herself gasp, though the bonds constricted her ribcage, and she felt Lúthien’s petal-soft mouth curve into a smile against her skin. 

Suddenly Thuringwethil’s body bucked, more from surprise than anything, but quickly turning to hateful, coiling pleasure, as a soft, delicate hand slipped between her thighs, below the scraps of orc-leather she wore. Traitor, Thuringwethil whispered to herself as anger coursed through her along with the pleasure, anger at being unable to move, anger at Lúthien for holding her in thrall so, and so easily. 

“Shhhh” whispered the princess, as though she could hear Thuringwethil’s thoughts. There really were tears in her eyes now, Thuringwethil saw, even as she struggled. She wondered why, briefly, but wrath was in her, wrath and unwilling ecstasy as Lúthien’s hand moved, slipping in and out of her, rubbing her in circles. The small slick sounds filled her ears, mixed with Lúthien breathing against her throat and the trembling mewls she was making herself. She thought, uncomfortably, of her own last victim, the breathy sounds of their dying. 

Her body was betraying her, even as she drew wide her mouth, trying to get an angle to bite Lúthien, but it was no good. She pressed her teeth together, accepting that soon Lúthien would bring her to release and then, perhaps, might free her, might allow her the opportunity to kill. But even as the pleasure tightened and coiled within her, she could hear that buzzing sound again, that strange discordant note, and she felt herself slowly slipping from her body, experiencing less of the world around her as everything narrowed to Lúthien, her scent, her sounds, the accursed skill of her hands. 

She was close to release, she knew, but even as she was on the brink she let out a high-pitched keening sound, and Lúthien drew back, her mouth no longer on Thuringwethil’s throat, her hand slipping from between slick thighs. Suddenly, Thuringwethil became aware that she was confined more tightly than ever; distracted, Lúthien’s bonds had slipped about her wrists, her ankles, binding her wings uncomfortably tightly to her back, scraping their delicate skin on the stone. She tried to growl, tipping her head back up to glare defiantly at Lúthien’s face, spitting at her feet, a gobbet of blood and poison. 

There was something under her skin, she realised, something burning, and it seemed she knew - without quite understanding how - that it was that same brilliance that Lúthien radiated, the kind that set her teeth on edge. And now it was beneath her skin, doing something within her, just below the surface. She let out a tiny cry, but Lúthien paid her no heed. She seemed to be busy with something else now, Thuringwethil saw as her head cleared a little. Even now, even after all this, she still ached for release, but Luthien was carefully selecting a heavy, broken stone from the ground, before taking Thuringwethil’s clawed hand gently in her own where it lay against the rock at her back.

Tears were falling freely down Lúthien’s face.

When she realised what would happen, Thuringwethil screamed, or tried to, but it was too late. 

Lúthien had taken the rock to the delicate bones of her hand, crushing them and sending a bolt of blinding pain through her, which vibrated in her ears and turned the world to discordant brightness. From the mess of blood and bone that was her hand, she felt Lúthien pluck a single finger-bone, pulling it out with horrifying, preternatural strength. Even as Thuringwethil watched, Lúthien reached up and plucked a single hair from her own head, black and shining.

The princess clasped the hair and the bloody bone in the confines of her fair hands, as though sheltering a tiny, vulnerable creature there, raising her hands to her lips. Thuringwethil had not known what to expect, but Lúthien began to sing softly into her cupped hands, the song enveloping them and filling them. Violet light began to bleed through the gaps between her fingers even as Thuringwethil watched. 

When Lúthien’s hands parted, Thuringwethil gasped in surprise, horror and dread beginning to curl once more within her. 

In between Lúthien’s hands there lay no longer hair and bone, but a thick, black thread and a shining bone needle, wickedly sharp and gleaming. 

With a sigh, Lúthien drew something else from her belt; a steel dagger, glinting in the residual brightness from the song. 

“As I said, I just need… one thing from you, if you please.”

Lúthien placed the flat of the blade at Thuringwethil’s breast-bone. Then she drew it suddenly down, quick and precise as a striking serpent.

Thuringwethil did scream this time, a high, thin sound, as hot blood gushed from the long gash. But even as she screamed, she was silenced again, as with the blood rushed out the violet light, making the bile rise in her throat. Her very skin seemed to be loosening, the brightness separating it from her body, until Lúthien could reach around to the nape on her neck and grasp a handful of it. 

Then she tugged.

Thuringwethil felt her very skin come away, with a single, great, squelching tearing sound, aided by the burning brightness that coated her. Her wings - her beautiful wings, that she had first unfurled in the quiet, warm darkness at her mother’s breast - went with it, the whole thing hanging like a limp and bloody cloak from Luthien’s outstretched hand. 

“What have you done?” she tried to scream, but her lips didn’t seem to work the way they had before. She could feel the blood pooling slick on the burning expanse of her skinless body, a sheening film that stained the rocks about her. Even as she writhed in pain, she could feel the bonds of Lúthien loosening about her, letting her collapse back limply, her body aflame, broken. Tears pooled hot and stinging in her own eyes.

“Curse you!” she howled. As she watched, Lúthien was pulling the skin about herself as a cloak, drawing it closed at the front. Her wings spread, within the confined space. “A thousand curses on you and all your kin! May you go to the Void for your deeds, foul creature of the burning light!”

The worst was that even now, even as she wore Thuringwethil’s skin as a garment, fitting somehow perfectly about her body - and Thuringwethil dimly registered that she was using the bone needle and thread to sew it closed up the front, the thick needle tugging at her own skin, blood beading where it was pierced - even now, Lúthien’s eyes were full of pity.

This time, Thuringwethil was too overwhelmed and weakened by pain even to spit. 

When she had finished sewing, Lúthien came to her once more, leaning over her as though in indecision. 

Thuringwethil hissed, baring her teeth. “You will come to naught but death, and you will damn yourself” she felt a desperate, painful smile crawling across her lips, blood and hysterical laugher bubbling at the corners of her mouth. “That skin… it brings with it… a liking for blood… you will stain your beautiful pure hands! You already have!”

Lúthien sighed, and, very gently, leaned over Thurignwethil until they were staring into each other’s eyes. It was strange, looking back into her own face, blood at her nostrils, mouth, and the corners of eyes that were not her own, for they were the wrong colour, flame-filled and horrifyingly bright. Softly, Lúthien leaned forward and gently kissed her lips. Then she drew back, slick, obscenely beautiful pink tongue licking the blood from her mouth, Thuringwethil’s blood. 

“I know” said Lúthien, with a slight, regretful smile. Both their tears mingled and fell onto Thuringwethils raw cheeks, burning salt against her bloody exposed flesh. 

Then she stood and was gone, sweeping out of the tiny, cramped cave, into the blinding brightness outside.


End file.
